By some miracle, Cassandra Lulach—love of my life, mother of my unborn child—accepted my marriage proposal. Of course, she didn’t say yes right away. It took me some time to convince her—twenty-four days, to be specific. I hustled her to the altar three days later.

We said our vows this afternoon at Helios, in the garden with our immediate family as the only witnesses. Afterward, we enjoyed a mini-reception with family and a few close friends who could be trusted to keep our marriage a secret until we return from our honeymoon.

We’re on our way to Thailand right now, soaring thirty-thousand feet above land in a private jet. It’s late, nearly midnight, and Cassie and I are in bed in the luxurious master suite.

I’m awake, worrying how my new wife will react when I finally tell her that the child she’s carrying is mine—not just in spirit, but in reality. She’s asleep, exhausted from the strain of her pregnancy and the stress of the wedding.

I promised myself that I’d tell Cassie the truth after the wedding. Now I’m wondering if I should wait until our honeymoon is over in two weeks.

I want our marriage to get off on the right foot, and there’s a high probability she’ll freak out when I tell her that I’m the guy from the masquerade ball who knocked her up. I certainly don’t want that to ruin our trip to Thailand.

I was in a hurry to get married. My bride-to-be thought it was because of her pregnancy, and she wasn’t entirely wrong—I did want our daughter to be born within the confines of marriage.

But the main reason I rushed the ceremony? I was afraid Cassie would change her mind.

I couldn’t take an easy breath until she said I do and wore my ring on her finger. It’s a lovely ring too—a family heirloom that features a six-carat pear-shaped emerald surrounded by diamonds.

Cassie’s eyes almost fell out of her head when I gave it to her. She probably would’ve preferred something smaller, but what can I say? Size matters. 

I’m still not sure what finally persuaded her to accept my proposal. I know it wasn’t my royal blood.

After nearly two decades of women chasing me with the goal of joining the royal family, I’ve found one who has no desire to be a princess. Cassie married me despite my title.

The first time I mentioned what her official title would be—Duchess of Leggero—she turned the color of rice paper, clutched her stomach, and spent thirty minutes in the bathroom, puking up her guts.

When the world finds out about our marriage, people will probably refer to her as Princess Cassandra. We’ll make the formal announcement once we return from our honeymoon.

On the bed next to me, my new wife rolls onto her side and snuggles her ass against my groin. I barely manage to swallow my groan. I’m hard, and I have the worst case of blue balls known to man.

Did you know five out of ten newlyweds don’t have sex on their wedding night? I’m one of them.

Shortly after Cassie and I boarded the jet, she excused herself to get ready for bed. When I made my way to the bedroom thirty minutes later, I found her asleep on top of the duvet, wearing a sheer black nightie that showed a hell of a lot more than it hid. She’d obviously dressed to seduce but passed out before she could execute her plan.

For a moment, I thought about waking her, but then I kicked that selfish, shitty idea out of my head. She’s growing my baby in her belly, and the least I can do is let her sleep when she needs it. There’s plenty of time for fucking once we get to Thailand.

I admit my cock wasn’t happy with my decision to let her sleep. It threw a small tantrum because it’s feeling neglected. You see, I haven’t touched Cassie since that night at her apartment when I asked her to marry me.

I want to. Of course I do.

But I had a niggling fear that if we had sex, she might figure out I was the guy in the white wolf mask. Stupid, right? The idea that my cock is so memorable she’d immediately know it was me.

And yet ... I just couldn’t risk losing her. So I kept my mouth shut and poured all my energy into convincing her that we’d have a wonderful life together.

I should’ve told Cassie the truth when I first discovered I was the father of her unborn child. I should’ve ignored that voice inside me that insisted it wasn’t the right time. Because guess what? There’s never a right time to tell the woman you love that you fucked a stranger at a masquerade ball, and she just happens to be that woman. 

I planned to come clean the night Cassie invited me to dinner at her apartment. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans—they often go awry.

I think my plan went awry the moment she opened the door. When I saw her standing there, with her curves wrapped in a dress the color of sunlight and her sparkly purple toenails peeking from her sandals, I wanted to carry her to bed and kiss every inch of her body.

I didn’t plan on going down on her or admitting that I was in love with her. When she asked me if I could love the baby, even though she wasn’t mine, I should’ve told Cassie the truth then. I still don’t know why I didn’t, except that I was afraid it would change her opinion of me, maybe even make her second-guess her feelings. 

I didn’t plan to ask Cassie to marry me either, at least not so soon. I’d thought about proposing, of course, because marriage would clean up the mess I’d made. But I didn’t mean to blurt out the question like that. It just burst out of me.

I wasn’t too surprised when she shrieked, “Are you crazy?”

One of her biggest concerns involved the Alsanian throne and its line of succession. She balked at the thought of her daughter possibly ruling our country when she didn’t have any royal blood.

I could’ve told Cassie the truth then—her daughter will be a bona fide princess, a legitimate and true heir to the House of Trioni. Instead, I pointed out that Leo and Tessa’s offspring would inherit the throne, not ours. That seemed to appease Cassie. 

She was also worried about where we’d live, if she’d continue to work, and how we’d handle being in the public eye. I must’ve done a decent job soothing her worries because she stood in front of our family and promised to love and cherish me ’til death do us part. 

I hear my wife make a noise—a snuffly little sigh that makes me smile. With my palm on her bump, I press closer to her and nuzzle my face into her hair.

“I love you so much,” I whisper. “Please don’t hate me when I tell you the truth.”

Closing my eyes, I shove all those worries to the back of my mind and think about my honeymoon. I need to spend it wisely—showing my wife how much I love her. 

*****

CASSIE

My marriage didn’t get off on the right foot, mostly because neither I nor Marco got off.

It’s all my fault. Just like a princess in a fairy tale, I fell into a deep slumber the minute I stretched out on the massive bed that felt like a puffy cloud.

I slept through my wedding night. Yeah, I can’t believe it either.

It wouldn’t be a big deal if Marco and I were like other couples who had sex before they said I do. But we haven’t had sex, therefore it is a big deal that I fell asleep. I’m sure my husband expected to spend his wedding night doing something other than watching me drool.

When I woke up in the middle of the night to use the restroom, Marco was asleep next to me. But his side of the bed is empty now.

I have no idea what time it is. The plane is still in the air, and since the flight to Thailand is about twelve hours, it must still be morning.

As I stare up at the ceiling, I think back to the night Marco proposed. While most women would’ve screamed yes, a thousand times yes, I asked if he was crazy.

I would’ve responded far differently if he were anyone other than Prince Marco, heir to the Alsanian throne. If he were Just-a-Regular-Guy Marco, I would’ve immediately accepted his proposal because: one, I’m in love with him, and two, I think he’ll be a great husband and father.

Maybe I should be worried about his reputation as a playboy, but I’m not. I refuse to judge him for his past. He had a life before me and that life included sex.

I had a life before Marco too, and I wasn’t a virgin when we got married. Wouldn’t it be hypocritical to judge him for his past behavior when I had sex with a stranger at a masquerade ball and ended up pregnant?

I know women will always throw themselves at Marco. Part of the allure is his royal blood, of course. But even if my husband wasn’t a prince, women would still slip their numbers to him, still be ready to drop their panties for him.

For weeks, I debated whether I should accept Marco’s proposal. He won me over simply by listening to me, by acknowledging my fears and validating my feelings. He made sure I knew that he would dedicate his life to making me happy. He promised to honor our vows and be faithful to me, and I believe that he will.

I know a lot of people would struggle to love a child that wasn’t theirs, but I believe Marco when he says he loves me and my baby. And I know, without a doubt, that he means it when he says my daughter will be his daughter too, in every way that matters.

Just as I throw back the covers, the door to the main cabin opens, and Marco walks in, carrying a breakfast tray. I make a move to leave the bed, but he stops me by saying, “Stay where you are.”

He waits while I arrange the pillows behind me and scoot up the bed until I’m sitting. As he places the tray across my lap, it occurs to me that Prince Marco of Alsania is serving me breakfast in bed.

I can’t believe I’m married to the man the entire world knows as the Playboy Prince. I feel like pinching myself.

When he leans in for a kiss, I dodge his mouth and cover mine with my hand. “Morning breath,” I mumble.

He laughs softly and tugs my hand away from my mouth. I expect him to kiss me, despite my warning, but he doesn’t. Instead, he presses his lips to my knuckles like he’s a lord and I’m a lady.

Wait a second. He is a lord. In addition to his title of prince, Marco is the Duke of Leggero. And I’m his lady wife, the Duchess of Leggero. 

I think it’s more than a little ironic that I never envied famous people—I felt sorry for them, in fact—and now I’m going to be one. I’m not happy about being in the spotlight, but if I want to be with Marco, I have to accept it. 

It all comes down to this—he’s worth it. For him, I can deal with the nosy public and invasive paparazzi. Tessa learned how to deal with the lack of privacy. So can I.

And it’s not as if being a member of Alsania’s royal family doesn’t have its bright spots. With my husband standing beside me and my title backing me up, I’ll have a lot of influence. I’ll be able to champion causes and charities that are important to me. I’ll be able to make a difference, maybe even more than I would’ve been able to as a teacher.

I decided to take a year off from teaching. Marco didn’t suggest that I give up my career, even though no women in the royal family have ever held a job, but he agreed that a hiatus makes sense. Given the baby’s due date, I would’ve missed part of the school year anyway.

As Marco removes the silver dome covers from my breakfast, I notice he’s wearing camo-patterned shorts and a gray tee with the Rolling Stones tongue logo. Spying black scribbles on the material, I peer at them. 

“Oh, my God!” I gasp. “Is that Mick Jagger’s autograph? And Keith Richards’? And Charlie Watts’?”

He glances down, as if he forgot what he was wearing. “Um-hmm.”

I shake my head in amused exasperation. A normal person—someone who’s not a prince—would cherish a T-shirt autographed by the most famous musicians in the world and pack it away as a keepsake. But Marco wears it, confident he can replace it at any time because he actually knows these people. He hangs out with them.

His concert shirt reminds me of the time he jumped on stage during a U2 concert in London and sang along with Bono for a couple of sets. He’s done some crazy stuff.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” I ask.

He sits on the edge of the bed, near my feet, and swipes a slice of wheat toast off my plate. “I’m not sure.” He bites off one crusty corner, scattering crumbs all over his priceless shirt. “Probably the time I chartered a jet and flew a bunch of friends to Sweden and built a bonfire on a glacier in Sarek National Park.”

“Where did you get that idea?”

He shrugs. “I don’t remember.” He shakes his head. “It was monumentally stupid though.”

I hear the disgust in his voice. “Then why did you do it?”

“Because I have trouble dealing with difficult emotions.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Leo and I might seem like complete opposites, but we’re exactly the same when it comes to emotional intelligence. Neither of us has much. He closes himself off and pretends not to feel anything, and I do something stupid to create a distraction so I don’t have to think about anything that makes me feel bad.”

Marco points his toast toward the tray. “I requested an herbal tea blend for you. It has ginger and mint to prevent morning sickness. And I also had two boxes of fortune cookies shipped to Thailand, just in case.”

“Thank you. That was incredibly thoughtful.”

His gaze sweeps over my face, and I wonder if I have sleep in the corners of my eyes. “How are you feeling this morning?” he asks. 

“Good.” I add milk and sugar to my tea and stir. “What was happening in your life when you decided to melt a glacier?”

He looks off into the distance, his eyes unfocused. “Leo had just finished pilot training, and we were waiting to see where he’d be deployed.”

“You were afraid for him,” I say before taking a sip of tea.

“Yes. But mostly I was afraid for me. I can’t imagine my life without him. He’s my best friend. He’s also the heir, and if something had happened to him, I would’ve had to take the throne. And no one would’ve been happy then.”

He picks up the fork, stabs the tines into a strawberry, and brings it to my mouth. I part my lips, and he slips the fruit inside.

“Have you read Hamlet?” he asks.

I hurriedly swallow the sweet, ripe strawberry. “Years ago. I’m not a fan of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I like his comedies better.”

“Which one do you like best?”

“Hmm. Probably Taming of the Shrew.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. You’re a lot like Katherine.”

Arching my eyebrows, I ask, “Are you saying I’m a shrew?”

He snorts. “Of course not. I’m saying you’re intelligent and witty.”

Appeased by his answer, I return to the previous topic. “If I remember Hamlet correctly, Claudius murdered his brother so he could be king.”

“That’s right. The first time I read it, I couldn’t understand why Claudius wanted the throne so badly. I’d probably kill myself to avoid it.”

I jab his hip with my foot. “Don’t say that!”

“Why not? It’s true.” He stabs a piece of pineapple and brings it to my mouth. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

Chewing the pineapple, I consider his question. I know the answer but I’m not sure I should mention it, especially since we haven’t even consummated our marriage.

“Tell me,” he prods.

Deciding to be honest, I say, “Having sex with a masked stranger at a royal ball definitely ranks as the number one craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

My husband locks eyes with me. “Can I ask you something?”

Though I’m not sure I want to hear his question, I say, “Go ahead.”

“Why did you do it?”

Needing clarification, I say, “Why did I have sex with a masked stranger?”

He nods.

“Because he reminded me of you.”

The fork plummets from Marco’s hand and clatters onto the tray, barely missing the plate overflowing with a cheese-and-veggie omelet, bacon, and breakfast potatoes.

“What?” he whispers.

“He reminded me of you. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.” I take a deep breath, wondering if I should admit the rest. “I wanted you, Marco, not some random guy, and when I was ... when we were ... the whole time, I was pretending it was you.”

“Cassie.” His eyes are huge with shock. “It was—”

A knock sounds on the door, and the flight attendant’s voice floats through the wood. “Your Royal Highness? We’re starting our descent.”

Marco slowly rises from the bed, his gaze on me. “Eat your breakfast. We’ll finish this conversation later.”